


Quicksand

by orphan_account



Category: Homestuck
Genre: (a little), (john is 16 dave is in his 20s or 30s), Age Difference, Dirty Talk, M/M, Nipple Play, Size Difference, Spanking, Vibrators
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-14
Updated: 2013-12-14
Packaged: 2018-01-04 14:28:28
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,369
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1082100
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"My dialogue would be fantastic," you say. You suck a tiny bruise into the thigh you’re holding, hide your grin as he tenses up. "Shit, it’d be so good I could probably score someone who didn’t require constant lines of cash like a goddamn coke addict."</p><p>"Maybe even someone legal. That would be a disaster!"</p><p>--</p><p>alpha/older dave + cute asshole bottom john pwp</p>
            </blockquote>





	Quicksand

**Author's Note:**

> this is mindblowingly self-indulgent.

 

"Unclench."

You’ve got one hand on his thigh and another rubbing circles into his hip while he adjusts, and somewhere past the blown pupils and bruised lips you get the impression that he’s glaring at you. Trying to, anyway. John’s not really one for schooling his emotions, no matter how many he’s experiencing at once.

Case in point. “I don’t like this,” he says point-blank, wriggling a little in discomfort until you press him back down into the mattress. “Are you sure you used enough lube?”

"Relax." But you take enough pity on him to give his dick a few non-committal tugs — taking a vibe for the first time isn’t exactly easy, you guess — and when you swipe away the pre at his cockhead he manages to relax a bit. "There’s enough lube down there to send an entire brigade of old clunkers gliding down the interstate like a pack of fuckin dolphins."

He laughs at you; he’s not quite used to the vibrator enough to cut into a moan when you jerk it inside him, but it does make his breath catch. “I’m starting to see why you don’t—” He arches a little and takes a second to breathe; you use the opportunity to palm yourself through your boxers. You knew this was a good idea. “—write the dialogue in your movies.”

Well that wasn’t very nice. You flick the vibrator up a setting and watch his body seize up a little in confusion, the bruise-spattered pronunciation of his collarbone suddenly starker against his skin.

"My dialogue would be fantastic," you say. You suck a tiny bruise into the thigh you’re holding, hide your grin as he tenses up. "Shit, it’d be so good I could probably score someone who didn’t require constant lines of cash like a goddamn coke addict."

"Maybe even someone legal. That would be a disaster!"

There’s no bite to it, but you opt to play along anyway. “Hey, if you’re too intimidated by—”

You’re cut off by a moan, loud and sweet; he arches off the bed and tries to hold himself there, bucking against the air in some desperate attempt at friction. You grin wolfishly. “Well would you look at that.”

You give him a few more thrusts with the vibrator (“ _Shit, Dave, right there, come_ on— _”)_ until he shoves the knuckle of his index finger into his mouth, and shit, the look of him blissed out to the point of trying to hold himself back is close to downright filthy. “Still not liking the vibrator?”

The groan he gives is somewhere between annoyed and desperate, and fuck, you knew he’d like this, you knew he’d come around to the idea of being attended to while you weren’t technically getting yourself off yet. “S _hhh_ -shut up, Dave, oh my god do you ev—  _oh god oh god_ —”

You hitch his leg over your shoulder and lean up to press a sloppy, open-mouthed kiss to the shaft of his dick, and you swear to god he literally  _keens,_ arching up into the heat of your mouth as his fingers turn to talons in your hair and—

The buzzing stops.

"No," he says. His body is coiled so tightly you think he might burst, a solid block of lead splayed out over the covers. "Oh no, oh no oh no ohno ohno Dave what the fuck did you  _do_ oh my god I was so close what the fuck—”

"You were the one who wanted to be edged," you remind him as ease the vibe out of him. He winces at the loss.

"Wh—?  _I_  wanted a new 3DS. The edging was your idea.”

You roll your eyes. “Semantics.”

"Dave, shit, I was right there you fucking dickweed, I swear to god. Just."

"You are such a fucking brat, Christ." And hey, look at that fluorescent fucking lightbulb smacking you in the face with its eco-friendly agenda. "Come here."

John goes from derisive begging straight to apprehension, then, the cogs screeching to a halt so tentative you can’t even see the irritation on his face anymore. “What?”

"I said come here."

He scrambles slowly into sitting position, his erection flagging a little as he does. Yeah, that’s not going to be lasting long. You swing your legs over the side of the mattress and pull him over your lap, his face buried in the down of the comforter as you position him over one knee. He’s got a fantastic ass, plump and round and so different from the conglomerate of angles that make up the rest of him, and come on, you really can’t help it.

When your palm comes down on his ass for the first time, you think he shudders more from the sound of it than the (pretty mild) sting itself; you don’t rub the skin until you’ve slapped it again, harder this time, and he moans for you, harsh and ragged. “I think you’re forgetting who’s calling the shots, here,” you say lightly, and it’s all just words, because you don’t have half the power over him that he does over you and you wouldn’t want it anyway, but when you talk like this he practically curls into your lap, bringing one hand between himself and the mattress to thumb at his nipples and oh god.

You smack him again and he actually gasps when you rub the skin gently afterward, letting out a little sob as you let one finger brush down against his still-slick hole. If he’s said it once he’s said it a million times,  _I’m not a flower, Dave, I can take a little pain,_ and you think you know what he means, now, because you can see him licking his lips sluggishly out of the corner of your eye and you don’t really know if you could hold back at this point.

You move the hand currently holding him steady in your lap until you’ve got two of the fingers inside him; the position’s a little awkward, but if the way he sobs fully this time is of any indication, he doesn’t really notice. He clenches down when you smack his ass again, hard enough that he could take your fucking fingers off, Jesus, and you purposefully avoid his prostate as you thrust your fingers in.

"And stop rutting against my thigh," you say, and you’re proud of how nonchalant you manage to sound with a boner the size of the South Pole tenting in your boxers. "You’re sixteen, not twelve, you’re not gonna die if you don’t come in the next two minutes."

He moans, and you bring your hand down again for good measure before grabbing the lube off the nightstand, managing to squeeze a little more around the two fingers you’ve got in his ass before adding a third. That does the trick, apparently — he splutters into the comforter as he pushes back against you, practically writhing when you hit his prostate head-on, and shit, okay, game over, John may not die if he doesn’t come in the next two minutes but you most definitely will.

"That’s enough," you breathe as you pull him off your lap, gentle in spite of your recent reprimands. After you wipe the lube on your fingers (gross) off on his stomach, you shuck off your boxers as quickly as you can — shit, finally — and toss them to the side, reaching for a condom off the bedside table and—

"No," John says, and apparently he’s gained enough self-control to reassemble the usual demanding attitude (if a little shakily). For all that, his eyes are wide and surprisingly earnest considering how blown back his pupils are; you can’t quite not lick your lips when you note the needle-thin tear tracks ribboning off his cheekbones. "I want. I want to feel you."

Tempting as that offer is. “No way in hell, kid,” you say, tearing it open with your teeth. “Can’t risk your pretty little ass getting all crab infested or some shit. Besides, the teenage pregnancy stigma isn’t something you want to live with for the rest of your life.”

"Fine." He’s huffy, but when he takes the unwrapped condom from your hand he doesn’t toss it aside. He slides down, legs still shaking, and positions it over the head of you dick. "At least let me put it on."

Well shit.

John is really, really fucking good at giving head — he should be, with all the times he suckers you into buying him something that way, the little bastard — and while that isn’t exactly the intention here, he’s still got his mouth on your dick and even through the latex it’s crushing in its warmth and god, god, god, he lets you fuck his mouth a couple of times, only gagging a little the first time you slide down his throat. He can’t quite take all of you, because for all his talk he’s still only sixteen and maybe 120 pounds soaking wet, but his lips look so pretty wrapped around your dick as you force his head down, and he hums around you and o-kay, if you don’t pull him off your dick right now you’re going to bust a nut down his throat.

He’s grinning as you pull him back into your lap, slicking your dick with your free hand and then re-lubing his ass. “Good boy,” you breathe into his ear as he clenches around the head. There’s an urge to buck up, to thrust, to do  _something,_ but he’s burying his face in your neck and clawing down your back and you need him to know how good he’s doing, how good he always does. “So good, always taking my cock without complaining, keeping so close to quiet during your punishment, you’re so good, John, you’re so.” He whimpers as he slides further down, and you suck more bruises into his neck, because in the end he’s yours and every mark on his body is yours, just like the scratches down your back that will be silver by morning are his.

"Dave," he says, and you’re finally seated within him; for the first time since last week’s rendezvous you’re acutely aware of how much smaller he is than you; you can feel the bones in his arms as they tighten around you, the skininess of his thighs as they seize up in brackets around your hips, how tight he is every single time and you’re going to lose it before you even really start, going to—

"Dave," he repeats, voice hoarse. It brings you down to earth a bit. He shifts a little, using your shoulders as leverage to push himself up and ease back down, his dick leaving thin little trails of pre-come up and down your abdomen as he moves. He’s still adjusting, not quite at the right pace yet; your nails leave blunt little indents at his hips where they dig into the skin, and you just.

He shudders as he increases speed, and “Okay, D-Dave I think you can—  _ah_  — move now.”

And who are you to say no to that.

John practically keens when you lift him by the hips and slam him back down, his back arching as he sucks in a breath. “Come on,” he urges, rocking his hips to meet your thrusts. Every breath is a pant, harsh and ragged against his throat, and one of his hands moves down to thumb your nipple. Fuck. “Fa-aster, god, Dave, please—”

You fucking groan as you lean down, taking one of his nipples into your mouth, rolling the nub between your teeth as he gasps into your hair. You’re fucking him at an absolutely ruthless pace, and he’s perfect, smooth and tight and clenching more every minute, and you pull him closer as he shakes, reaching one hand between you to stroke his dick. It twitches in your hand almost immediately; he lets out the fucking neediest cry you’ve ever heard from him as you start to jerk him off, letting him fuck your hand and you move back up to kiss his jawline, and if you don’t want to be majorly embarrassed you’ve gotta end this now.

"T-that’s it, babe," you say, biting just below his jawline for good measure. "Come on, now — w-why don’t you come for me?"

He absolutely seizes around you, and all he can say is your name, locked up from the neck down as he mindlessly fucks himself on your dick; it takes all of three seconds for him to splatter both of your stomachs with come, soundtracked by the sluttiest little goddamn cry right in your ear, and he’s so tight you can barely move, clenched down and whimpering with how oversensitive he is as you thrust up and up and up until you fucking explode, pulsing over and over again from the force of your own orgasm to the point that you’re actually gripping him to you, but fuck fuck fuck you don’t care because  _holy shit—_

He squeaks a little when you pull out, watching you tie off the condom with half-lidded eyes. He looks so loose-limbed and well-fucked lying back on your bed like that, it’s fucking criminal; you rummage through the drawer of the bedside table until you find the wipes, and you clean him up gently as he comes down from his orgasm.

"Love you," you mumble as you lie down beside him, pulling the blankets over both of you as you pull him to your chest. Sometimes you like to make him hot chocolate or something after this sort of ordeal, but right now you kind of just really want to hold him. Too much to be assed to get to the kitchen anyway.

He hums contentedly as he practically jellifies against you; his hair is a little wet, dampened by sweat, but it still smells nice under your nose and you kiss the back of his head. “Love you too, loser,” he says. For a second, you think you feel a spark of interest revive his currently decimated nervous system, but it doesn’t seem to hold. “Hey, does this mean I can have that new 3DS.”

"Go the fuck to sleep, John."

**Author's Note:**

> [tumblr mirror!](http://johncrocker.tk/post/69946854983/did-somebody-say-cute-asshole-bottom-john-sugar)


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